


Another Drink And That Feeling Goes Away

by A Big Sexy Jellyfish (abigsexyjellyfish)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol, Dubious Consent Due To Drunkenness, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5051725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigsexyjellyfish/pseuds/A%20Big%20Sexy%20Jellyfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade is slowly coming to terms with silly things like hope, attraction and Caravan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Drink And That Feeling Goes Away

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt on the Fallout kinkmeme all the way back in 2010. I liked it enough to (slightly) clean it up and re-post it here.

As much as Arcade would like to deny it, Doc Henry had a point when he used to say that Arcade’s main flaw is that he knows exactly how clever he can be.

Arcade takes pride in his work, in the odd bits of information that he has managed to accumulate over the years. He likes the fact that he speaks four languages. He also likes that he has read almost every single pre-war book that has fallen into his hands throughout his lifetime, no matter how obscure the subject might have been. Some have called him arrogant because of it, but Arcade refuses to be ashamed of having a brain and using it.

And yet...

And yet he has spent most of the day losing one hand of Caravan after the other. No matter how many people he asks to explain the rules to him, this game appears to be entirely beyond him. He’d almost want to accuse Boone of cheating, but Arcade is not quite that suicidal. Boone seems to get some odd kind of pleasure out of pointing out that no, Arcade, you can’t place that card there right now. He gets to do it quite often, too.

What _had_ happened to Poker? That had seemed easy enough.

Arcade is just glad that they are not actually playing for caps; otherwise he really wouldn’t know how he was ever going to pay the man back.

It’s moments like these that remind Arcade harshly that none of them get paid for being here. Sure, they get to stay and eat at the Lucky 38 for free, but since they moved into the presidential suite this has been feeling a lot less like the promised great adventure, and more like a giant waste of time.

It is not even like there isn’t plenty of work to be done on the strip, but lately their ‘fearless leader’ (and Arcade calls him that as mockingly as he can, even inside his own thoughts) has decided that it would be safer if they only traveled in pairs of two. Of course, he’s probably right, but those of them who don’t get taken along for the ride all that often are stuck at home, twiddling their thumbs and playing card games.

Oh, it could naturally be worse, but being some kind of live-in medic for what has to be the most ambitious delivery boy in the whole Mojave area is not what Arcade had originally signed up for.

Arcade doesn’t exactly regret following him just yet, but the days up here go by sluggishly, and he can’t help wondering if he wouldn’t be doing more good back in Freeside. It pains Arcade to remember, though, that all it had taken to get him to leave the Old Mormon Fort in the first place had been a few well placed words and the smile of a man who definitely did know how to play his cards right.

He is not as young as he seems, their Courier. He’s been enough places, seen enough things to know how to manipulate with the best of them. Better watch out, Caesar, that man could build an army if he tried.

The hours drag on and eventually even Boone gets tired of their game, leaving Arcade to idly shuffle a deck of cards, unable to figure out what else to do with himself while he is waiting.

It is almost midnight when the Courier and Cassidy finally stumble out of the elevator, holding on to each other as if they might fall down if they were left to stand on their own.

Arcade has already jumped to his feet in alarm when he realizes that no one is actually seriously injured. There is a small trail of dried blood running down the Courier’s left temple, hardly all that noticeable behind that dark red hair. It doesn’t seem like a very serious wound on first glance, but Arcade makes a mental note to clean the small cut before he lets the Courier go to bed that night.

But no, no one’s hurt. They are only drunk. It happens.

“I take it your investigations at the Ultra-Luxe were a success, then?” he asks, trying not to sound too annoyed with the two of them. He suddenly finds himself with an arm full of very solid, very inebriated Courier when Cassidy decides she’s been dragging him around for long enough.

“They’re all cannibals,” sounds a voice, slightly muffled against Arcade’s shoulder. “You really shouldn’t have stayed up.”

He probably shouldn't have.

“I know it’s a bit of a technicality, but I think we should say that they _were_ cannibals,” Cassidy corrects helpfully, seeming quite amused at the fact that she can hold her liquor a lot better than their companion. “You know, just to avoid confusion.”

“Hah, details. “

Cassidy stretches languidly, making her joints pop. “I don’t know what you’re going to do now, but I’m taking a bath and heading to bed. I really have to get out of these clothes.”

Arcade wouldn’t have thought he’d ever see Cassidy in a dress - let alone one that is quite as prettily salmon coloured as the one she is wearing now. He suspects that it will find its way to Veronica at some point.

Maybe it will be better if they talk in the morning. He tells her goodnight and gives the man in his arms - who at this point seems dangerously close to falling asleep where he’s standing – a soft nudge.

“I’m not carrying you to bed,” Arcade informs him.

“I’m strangely disappointed.” The Courier snorts in amusement, but does his best to carry his own weight to his room, where he just collapses onto the bed, not bothering to first remove the suit he’s still wearing. It is too good for him, far too good – he looks downright handsome.

Arcade leaves the room to fetch a bowl with warm water and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. When he returns the Courier seems to be fast asleep.

After only a moment’s hesitation Arcade takes a seat on the bed as well and begins to gently wash the blood away.

“One of these days something is bound to finally pierce that thick skull of yours.” 

There is a quiet laugh and the Courier - apparently not as out of it as previously thought - moves closer to use Arcade’s thigh as a makeshift pillow, not bothering to open his eyes as he does so.

In turn, Arcade does not even try to pretend that he does not appreciate the way that long neck moves when Arcade makes him tilt his head a little to gain better access to his companion’s injury. It’s really nothing; whatever caused it must have barely grazed the Courier. Normally it wouldn’t take Arcade long to clean and dress a cut like this, but for the moment he permits himself to take his time, to let his hands linger as they touch warm skin and surprisingly soft hair. It is only a small indulgence, one he refuses to feel guilty about.

It is almost funny how things have turned out.

When he’d first met the Courier, Arcade had taken him for nothing but a smooth-talker, someone willing to make believe he was interested in what an unsuccessful researcher had to say for a chance to drag him off to bed later that night. In all honesty; Arcade had been willing. In fact he would probably never have left the Fort in the first place if he had suspected that the Courier had been serious about wanting too free New Vegas.

Everyone is a revolutionary these days. Inside of their own minds, anyway. There is always talk of setting things in motion, of making a change, but those few willing to take action are often more mad than capable.

Now, several busy months later, many of the most powerful local gangs have already sworn to support the Courier in whichever way they can should an opportunity to fight for New Vegas’ independence arise. It is more than Arcade could ever have hoped for, but he has to admit that he is still quite overwhelmed.

Only now Arcade notices that the Courier is watching him with a kind of unfocused curiosity, probably wondering what on earth could be taking the doctor so long.

“So, fine cuisine, huh?” Arcade asks awkwardly.

“Mhm.“

The Courier chuckles softly and lets his eyes slide shut again, apparently reassured that Arcade is still working rather than just massaging his scalp when he feels the burn of the disinfectant. “It was fun. They invited us to stay for dinner after business was settled.” There is a short but significant pause. “Mind you, after the whole cannibalism thing we were not all that hungry anymore.”

Arcade very nearly has to smile.

Nothing has ever come of the flirting. Arcade is not so deluded as to assume that any of it had been genuine, not now that he sees every day how the Courier charms himself into people’s lives as effortlessly as he breathes. The Courier had wanted someone with medical experience, and Arcade had been a convenient, easy catch.

“There you go, all done,” Arcade says when he is finally finished. He is just about to carefully slide away from his tired companion so he can gather his things and leave when the Courier reaches up to rest a hand on his arm, stopping him from getting up.

“Stay a while,” he says, his voice just a little rough with imminent sleep.

At first Arcade wants to protest, it is late and the two of them really ought to get some sleep if they are to be of any use at all the next day.

_Stay._

There is no hidden meaning; it’s just a simple request for some company. And yet Arcade finds himself looking at the young man before him again, his long limbs spread carelessly across the bed like some kind of offering.

In a moment of recklessness one of Arcade’s hands finds its way back into all that messy red hair. When the Courier makes a quiet sound of sleepy content Arcade leans down and kisses him, for no other reason than because he wants to. He is more than half expecting to be pushed away, and knows full well that he is going to regret this. The Courier’s lips are not soft – there are cracks and Arcade can still feel a slight indent where they were split a couple of days ago during a fight just outside the Gomorrah.

The kiss starts out innocently enough, a mere brush of the lips that is not meant to last more than a couple of seconds, but when the warm mouth beneath his own opens just slightly Arcade cannot resist the temptation to deepen the kiss, if only for a moment. He tastes red wine and tobacco.

It’s not a bad kiss, even if the angle is more than just a little awkward.

As far as mistakes go, Arcade thinks he’s made worse. 

The quite unfortunate position makes him pull back sooner than he might have liked, but he doesn’t go far and lets his fingers trial across the other man’s stubbled jaw.

The Courier’s expression turns from dazed content to one that almost looks a little pained.

“Good lord, Arcade, I can barely even see straight,” he groans, twisting around to grab a handful of lab coat.

Before Arcade can protest that he really did not mean to take advantage – much - his back has already hit the mattress, and the Courier’s long body is covering his own like a blanket.

The world has turned upside down so quickly, Arcade momentarily thinks that he must be the one who is drunk.

There is nothing gentle or skillful about their second kiss; it’s wet, messy and directionless. Lips are bitten, noses bump, and Arcade’s glasses end up flying god-knows-where when they are unceremoniously pushed aside, making the room lose its focus.

Clumsy hands try to get everywhere at once. One moment they’re trying to find their way beneath his shirt, just to trail off and pluck at his belt for a while, before finally deciding that undressing seems altogether too complicated for the moment.

Arcade definitely wants it, but it’s going way too fast for comfort and he is fairly sure that they probably shouldn’t be doing this at all. That thought, however, is soon forgotten when the Courier actually manages to shove a long-fingered hand past the waistband of Arcade’s trousers.

Arcade gasps and roughly pulls at the Courier’s hair, making him bare his throat so Arcade can lick and bite at the skin. He comes after only a few firm strokes. It has been a while.

Afterwards he just lies there for a while, lost in thought, with the Courier asleep at his side. Arcade would have loved to get a chance to return the favour, to undress and touch him properly, but some things just aren’t meant to be. The Courier had collapsed into an unconscious heap shortly after he’d stopped touching Arcade.

Whatever Arcade had been expecting, this was not quite it, but it’s just as well. At least they got it over with, life can now slowly settle back into what passes for normality these days.

And that, as they say, was that.


End file.
